Gone and still to come

Friday night I went out drinking (La Buena Vita and Cabinet), which culminated in a midnight feast at Crown gulping down KFC and Krispy Kreme donuts. In other words, a typical, unhealthy Friday night.

On Saturday I was content to take it easy. The sky was low with cloud, it was cool, and through the morning a few showers passed by, which became late in the afternoon a heavy, hushed rain. I stayed in bed late and when I got up I tended to the usual Saturday chores and routines.

In the afternoon I set myself a task. I have about 300 odd CD's crammed tightly together in the draw of my entertainment unit. There are few I play with any regularity, and even those are rare. I'm almost ashamed to admit that most of my music is now heard in mp3 format or something similar, in my iPod or iPhone, through the iTunes on my desktop or streamed to remote speakers. CD's seem very old hat these days. And so I decided to clean out the drawer, toss the CD's I don't want (giveaways, prizes, ill-considered purchases), pack away the CD's I never play, and generally make space in the drawer for the CD's I listen to, and the growing collection of DVD's that don't have a home.

There are worse jobs than this. I sat on the coffee table in front of the unit sifting through the CD's putting them into different piles while outside it was cold and dreary. I played an audiobook as I worked, a 'young adult' book as it happens by John Marsden, Tomorrow, When the War Began (pretty good). Time passed quickly and easily as I paused to decide which pile a CD belonged to, or stopped to consider a CD I had long forgotten.

One of the piles was of CD's I wanted to listen to again for olds times sake, and possibly to rip to my iTunes library. Towards evening I took these CD's into my study and began sorting through them on my Mac.

One CD I bought many years ago was by Rickie Lee Jones. Though it was an unusual CD for me I had searched for it a couple of months ago wanting to play a song from it. The CD is Pop Pop, a collection of covers of classic songs. It's a better CD than you might think, though for me now the CD is inextricably associated with a time in my life. It has sentimental value.

That's one of the things we love about music. How it frames our lives, our consciousness. It is great in itself, but of course there is a lot we come to associate with particular moments, or eras in our life. Music is a memory carrier, we need only hear certain songs to be transported back to other times.

That's how it was for me again on Saturday. As I played Rickie Lee Jones and listened to her sweet, slightly slurred delivery I remembered Berni. In particular I recalled a bright, warm Saturday afternoon when I lay on my couch in the early nineties - '91 perhaps? - and listened to this very CD. As I lay there I thought of Berni. Earlier in the day we had met at a house warming party of a colleague of ours, a Canadian girl called Maria and her husband Terry, at their new home in Burwood. 

We knew hardly anyone there and so Berni and I stuck together. Our relationship was always so delicate, and in this period we had slowly begun coming out of one of the difficult phases where she pulls away, uncertain and afraid of what she felt, and of the perils of commitment. She was bright though on this day sitting by my side in the bright sunshine, playful and cheeky and at her best. I was relieved to see this and delighted, and responded in the same way. Like this we bat things backwards and forwards between us in the style that always had other people smiling and shaking their heads at the wit and inventiveness and sheer affection that bounced between us.

What was notable about this day was after all these months of fraught relationship negotiations she slipped and made comment about when 'we are married'. I said nothing and made no sign that anything unusual had occurred, but I was secretly thrilled. This was a breakthrough of sorts, an acknowledgement by her of our relationship. What was significant was that she said it aloud, had made some sort of public commitment she could not rescind.

Once said though more came. We discussed what it would be like and what we would do and pondered what the children would look like. I went along with this gently, not pushing too hard or too fast, not revealing any of my own excitement. I acted as if everything was perfectly normal, afraid of giving her fright.

I think that's what I thought about on my couch as I listened to Rickie Lee Jones. There was one song which caught me more and which in the weeks and months after as our relationship fluctuated that I found myself coming back to again and again. Comin' Back To Me is a melancholy seeming tune that seemed to seep into me as I lay there. I didn't know what was to come. I didn't even know what I should think of our conversation hours earlier. All I thought was how I cherished her and wanted to hold her close to me, and shelter her; and how complex she was. The day dwindled into dusk and I lay there not wanting to get up from where I lay, not wanting anything to shift for those moments.

That doesn't happen though. Things shift and change always. At some point after that we argued and came together again and argued then for the last time. We shared good times in my home and hers and there came a time when I believed that the promise of that day was about to be realised, only to find a day later that it was all over. In time we parted and never saw each other again. Then years later I heard of her death, something I can never forget.

I remembered all that as I sat at my desk playing this long-forgotten music.

That might be end of the story, but it isn't.

I went out yesterday to a party at my Mums. It was surprisingly good and I got home at about 7pm with a few more wines under my belt. For the next few hours I lay on the couch and flicked through the TV stations. At some point I happened across Notting Hill, and stopped.

For a start the scenes in bustling Notting Hill reverberated in me for reasons I'll explain shortly. Then of course Hugh Grant meets Julia Roberts and though it's very unlikely they share a moment. Most blokes at that point would have accepted it for what it was, taken it as great story to tell the mates down the pub. Of course in the movie Hugh Grant contrives to meet again the unattainable movie star, and of course, in the way of movies, ends up landing her. No doubt they live happily ever after.

As I watched I felt my excitement grow as if this meant something. Here was a message or a meaning.

On Saturday morning I had woken to find an email waiting for me from a head-hunter inviting me to apply for this you beaut job in London for double the money I was earning in my last job and with a 40% bonus. My first thoughts were sounds great, but...why don't these jobs come up in Melbourne? It didn't seem feasible, and though I ruminated on it over the rest of the weekend that seemed pretty much it.

Seeing this movie re-awakened that possibility. I could be living in those streets, I thought. Why not? What is there to lose? It dawned on me then how quickly things can change. We never know what's around the corner, and even when things seem darkest it does not take much to light things up again. I watched Hugh Grant in his clumsy pursuit of Julia Roberts and I admired his persistence - he lived the dream, and though it's only a movie, he got it. That's the thing, you have to for it. You have to believe in the dream and live it.

When I heard of Berni's death and found she had killed herself I was profoundly moved, as you might expect. There is one abiding outcome from that which may seem odd. I grieve for Berni, I loved her with all my heart and even all those years later she had only to call on me and I would be there to help her. That was not to be. Her life seems sad and unfulfilled, and I was part of it. I have felt ever since that I have to live for her as well, that in some way I had to make-up for what happened. 

Anything is possible. You can't curl up in a ball and hope things will right. And I don't think you should settle. I picked up the phone and called the friend I was out with on Friday night. She has been struggling one way or another in recent times. I told her what I thought. Don't give up. Keep believing, keep doing. She began to cry. I reiterated how quickly things can change, and that soon enough we might be laughing at how things turned out. And then, as she prompted me, I told her how it might be in every detail, how it might happen, realistic, but sweet.

As for me, I'll have a crack at the London job. Hard to believe there isn't anyone over there as well qualified as I am, and I don't expect it to happen, but, who knows. Live the dream, right?